


just a flesh wound

by Kaesa



Series: Kaesa's Whumptober 2019 fics [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Arthurian legend - Freeform, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 03:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa/pseuds/Kaesa
Summary: Aziraphale tends to his fearsome, terrible, hated enemy's wounds at the Battle of Camlann.





	just a flesh wound

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2019, for the prompt "dragged away."

When Crowley regained consciousness, it was to pain. He tried to remember what had happened -- there'd been... there'd been the battle. Yes. He'd provoked that battle. The negotiations between Arthur's men and Mordred's had been going too well -- curse these humans for being reasonable once in a blue moon -- so he'd slipped off and become an adder, although probably a funny-looking, red and black sort of adder, and he'd startled a knight, and then everything had gone to shit. Which was what he'd wanted to happen, so that was good. Mission accomplished.

That didn't really explain why everything hurt, though.

"Ah, there you are, Crowley." The voice was familiar, and warm, and placed a little more emphasis on his name than was necessary. He could still hear the sounds of battle, but they were hazy and distant.

"Angel?" Crowley mumbled. He forced his eyes open. They were still outside, but Crowley could see a half-ruined stone wall looming above him, mossy and shadowed, and there was a pair of brilliant white wings blocking out most of the gray sky.

He felt a warm hand on his forehead. "I'm right here. Can you stand?"

"'M very dizzy," said Crowley. He searched for Aziraphale in his field of vision, and found him, sort of -- a hazy, blurry sort of pink thing looking down at him. "Thought you didn't want to have anything to do with me."

"I never said that!" said Aziraphale. "Although I don't. Of course. Can you sit up, at least?"

It took a few tries -- Crowley discovered one of his arms should on no account be moved, lest it cause him indescribable pain -- and a little help from Aziraphale, but he managed to sit up, and lean against the wall. He was still very dizzy, and everything hurt.

"I think you got a nasty bump on the head," Aziraphale said, and helped him take his helmet off.

"Makes sense," said Crowley. It was very difficult to remember exactly what had happened in the press of the battle, but he settled on blaming Kay for it. Whatever happened, it was probably Kay's fault, and if not, he deserved the blame anyway, Crowley felt, by dint of being Kay.

"I saw you fall from your horse and -- and, well. Didn't want you to get trampled. So I dragged you away without anyone noticing," said Aziraphale.

He pulled down the maille hood, and combed his fingers through Crowley's hair. It felt __nice,__ and Crowley, to his shame, made a little noise at the back of his throat that he had not intended to make.

"Oh, I'm sorry, does that hurt?" Aziraphale asked, withdrawing as though the very act of touching a demon had burned him.

"N-- not that bad, everything hurts, pretty much," said Crowley. "You can keep -- keep looking for the bump. On my head. If you think that'll help." Crowley braced himself this time around, and only moaned when Aziraphale's fingers encountered a _very painful thing._

"Ah, there we are," said Aziraphale, tsking to himself. He conjured a handful of snow out of nothing, and wrapped it in some clean white cloth that, likewise, had not been there before.

"Why didn't you want me to get trampled?" Crowley asked, as Aziraphale held the cool bundle to his head.

"Well, why would I?" Aziraphale asked.

"Demon?" Crowley suggested. "Angel?" he added, nodding at Aziraphale, and then winced.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous. And hold your head still," said Aziraphale. He let go of the bundle of snow, and it stayed there, helpfully defying gravity. "You were holding your arm stiffly, do you think it might be broken? It looked like a very bad fall."

"Maybe twisted a bit," said Crowley, and gritted his teeth as Aziraphale started taking his armor off, trying very hard not to jostle him. Crowley sighed, and in a moment his armor was lying to the side.

"Oh! Oh, yes, I suppose -- that makes sense," said Aziraphale, rolling up Crowley's sleeve. His forearm was a mass of purple and swelling, and Crowley hissed unhappily. "Oh, I'm so sorry to keep hurting you, but --"

"It's fine," said Crowley, because watching an angel apologize for hurting him was just embarrassing. "Why are you helping me, anyway?"

"Well it... it just seemed like the thing to do, is all," said Aziraphale. He gently poked Crowley's arm again.

"Of course," said Crowley, with a little smirk, because he could tell there was something Aziraphale felt guilty about, and he suspected if he kept leaning on Aziraphale -- figuratively, he certainly wasn't going to move from this spot for a while if he didn't have to -- Aziraphale would blurt it out.

"I mean. Helping a fellow being. That's my job," said Aziraphale.

"Right," said Crowley, shivering as Aziraphale conjured another bundle of snow to press to his arm.

"I think it's broken," said Aziraphale. "Can you heal it yourself?"

"Eventually. Not right now," said Crowley.

"By 'eventually,' do you mean you're too dizzy to do it this very moment," Aziraphale asked, "or are you going to ignore it until it heals crooked?"

"_Eventually,_ angel, what does it matter to you?" Crowley snapped.

"Well. I just. I've been thinking. About what you said." Aziraphale looked at him almost fearfully.

"About what?"

"About -- about canceling each other out," said Aziraphale. "And. And, look, between you and me I don't think either of us had half the influence _either _of our employers thinks we did."

"I started the battle, though," said Crowley, smugly.

"_You_ \--__" Then Aziraphale laughed. _Laughed!_

"What?" Crowley demanded.

"Oh, no, I could tell it was all going to go wrong from the start, everything's been absolutely _rotten _at Camelot for ages," said Aziraphale, who sounded like he had a lot to get off his chest about this. "Frankly if it wasn't Mordred it would've been somebody else, I don't want to say who but, heavens, it'd have been even worse for Arthur if all _that _business had come out properly -- and anyway I overheard Bedivere and Lucan talking before negotiations, saying Arthur was getting to be too soft a touch and they were hoping for a fight. I don't think you _can _have done anything."

"I turned into a snake!" Crowley insisted. "I was _inssstrumental _to the whole -- aah!" He'd tried gesturing, and moved his arm, and now it hurt.

"Oh, Crowley," said Aziraphale, patting his hand -- fondly? "I know you must've tried. I tried too. But humans are... they're just..."

"Idiots?" Crowley supplied. Obviously he couldn't move his arm away from Aziraphale's hand. That would've hurt. He had to resist the urge to curl his own fingers around it, though.

"Well. That too," said Aziraphale. They were silent for a few moments, listening to the clash of metal on metal. "I will _consider _your suggestion, Crowley. Give me some time? And in the meantime, let's see if we can't get you feeling a bit better."

"Yeah. All right," said Crowley. "Thanks."


End file.
